


Refraction

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: hlh_shortcuts, Femslash, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Methuselah's stone, Multi, Paganism, Polyamory, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos and Duncan return to Paris looking forward to the approaching Solstice celebration, but find that Joe and Amanda's holiday preparations have gone awry, as a visit to Rebecca's castle draws the attention of powerful enemies...and more powerful magicks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dswdiane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dswdiane/gifts).



> Content includes occasional intimations of and some explicit slash, femslash and polyamory as well as a touch of magic. It is Highlander, and there is combat violence. I am hesitant to list all pairings to preserve some small illusion of suspense, but there is no non-con or dub-con content. I wish to profusely thank my long-suffering beta royale, adabsolutely, who worked above and beyond to bring this in under deadline for the HLH_Shortcuts festival December 2009. All, and I do mean all, errors, gaffs, mistakes and fubars contained herein are mine.

Refraction

 

-1-

The woodland was calm, the fall-frosted trees whispering and expectant as Ceirdwyn ascended the ancient paths that wound around the tor to the heart of the grove. Her burden bumped and pawed at the sides of the soft bag she carried, warm and wriggling. She murmured reassuring words in a language recognized only by the grey standing stones nearly buried in the forest's sheddings through the centuries.

The flat stone near the circle's center was nearly obscured by drifting autumn leaves, but they were easily brushed away--the site had been well tended, in the years before Rebecca's death. Rebecca had belonged to many tribes in her long, long years, and her time with the Vocontii had put her at odds with Ceirdwyn's own Iceni as the Romans turned Celt against Celt, but war had piled upon war over the years, and the hatreds formed in youth faded even from Immortal memories.

Rebecca had become a respected equal, and even a shield friend, after Immortal fashion. They floated in and out of each others' lives over the centuries, celebrating over victories, comforting during defeats, warming each other against the winds of time, within and without. She had been close enough to Ceirdwyn's heart for her to feel the tug of Andarte's stones as they belled in sorrow with her Quickening. The willows still wept for her death in the nearby ruins of Rebecca's keep.

Now Ceirdwyn visited her beloved grove in Rebecca's stead, and whisked the ancient stone clean, to soak in the sun's rays and the moon's beams before the winter fell, against the day of the suns return. Gently she lay her burden upon the icy granite and loosened the ties, sliding the bag away. The hare she had snared in the dried remains of the lavender fields near Rebecca's Wood froze with fear under her stern gaze.

Slowly, Ceirdwyn drew a triangular dagger, and raised her arms to the skies. And waited. And waited some more. Finally she winked one eye at the hare and reminded it, sotto voce, "This is the part where you run away in an auspicious direction, and sow confusion among our enemies--now, shoo!"

Obediently, and with great speed, the hare fled, picking the most auspicious direction that lead him the farthest away from the clearly dangerous woman with the very sharp knife.

"Good choice," Ceirdwyn approved, before she pricked her thumb and laid a single drop of living blood on the naked stone, invoking the words of her own first mentor, Boudicca. "I thank you, Andarte, and call out to you as one woman to another...I implore and pray to you for victory and to maintain life and freedom against arrogant, unjust, insatiable and profane men..."

When the invocation was finished, Ceirdwyn tended the outer circle, clearing deadfall and underbrush from the remaining stones, greeting each enduring edifice as an old friend or respected elder. Some of the oldest stones were placed long before her own familiar dendrolatrous beliefs evolved; they deserved respect as well, though she did not love them. A chosen few she avoided--not all ancient powers welcomed a woman's touch, even a woman warrior. Just so--Andarte only tolerated the most observant filidh and seers among the male mages, and woe betide those who sported their swords carelessly in her precincts.

An odd, eerily familiar snatch of song threaded through the glade as she inspected the oaks, raising her hackles. It had been centuries since she had heard this song from a living throat. She moved to the crest of the hill where it overlooked the River Sequana as it curled around the ruins of Rebecca's keep. She scanned the still standing chapel and inner bailey that Rebecca had been using as a retreat in recent years. Tanks and planes had smashed the outer keep's walls in the last century's invasions, but the core living quarters remained, bereft, now, since Rebecca's loss.

There was no movement on the grounds but for the fleetfooted hare, speeding back to his burrow in the lavender field. The River Sequana (so few now remembered Sequana as the god who guarded the source of the Seine) had doubled as both moat and port for trading goods in better days. Then, the Keep had thrived with a fully attendant abbey. Reeds grew wild on the bank where trade boats once jostled to land and hawk their wares in the Sunday fairs. Now, a single old fisherman floated in a dory anchored against the current. The dory was Rebecca's too, Ceirdwyn realized, taken from her mooring at the pier.

The fisherman gazed intently into the water, slowly paying out a thick line, far too heavy for any native trout. And he was singing a song no fashionably modern French trout should recognize. Ceirdwyn frowned, parsing the phrases she could make out. Some of the singer's words were creatively but direly mispronounced, yet the notes carried over the slow moving water with eldritch clarity on the autumn breeze.

"Whoa...gotcha..." she heard the fisherman remark as the boat suddenly rocked over a rush of released bubbles, and dipped in an unseen current. "Damn, the kid was right. It worked." He grasped the gunwales until the boat steadied, then dropped a small buoy marker over the side. With a sudden rush of anger, Ceirdwyn realized the man was angling for something far more rare and dangerous than the native fish. The water's disturbance revealed the charged focus of a potent elemental power.

Ceirdwyn checked her weapons, and her back trail, and eased down the hill toward the river, careful to maintain her cover. She was not happy with the idea of a stranger hunting artifacts on the borders of Rebecca's retreat, and even less so with an unlearned intruder using ancient lays near Andarte's place of power. Nouveau Druids offended her sense of propriety--they so often had no idea of the meanings of the rituals they aped or the tools they misused.

The distant drone downriver of a powerboat interrupted both stalker and prey. This was insupportable--Rebecca's stretch of river sanctuary was off-limits to powered craft. Ceirdwyn's quarry looked no more happy than she felt about the intrusion, frowning through his beard, clearly unhappy to be disturbed at his dubious task. He quickly hauled his small anchor and rowed upstream, away from his marker buoy, aiming toward the limited cover of the aging pier.

He didn't make it. A sleek, overbuilt powerboat rounded the bend and cut straight toward the dory, making no effort to give way. One large man pointed, clearly aware of the dory in their path. The pilot, Ceirdwyn realized with detached anger, was increasing his speed, not slowing down.

With ugly precision the boat's reinforced bow cut the dory in half, launching the unlucky singer into the winter chilled waters, still clutching an oar. The boat's pilot cut the motor and turned back amongst the flotsam, while his hulking co-pilot poked a gaff toward the man barely staying afloat in the water.

"Dawson! We know what you've got, and we know what you're after," the pilot called out. "Give it to us, and we'll pull you out before you freeze to death."

"Maybe when hell freezes over," his victim snarled. The man still had enough fight left to swing his oar at the powerboat, smashing the fingers of the man with the gaff, making him howl and drop it in the water. Swearing at his partner's clumsiness, the pilot tried to aim a small, ugly gun over the side of the bobbing boat. Ceirdwyn grinned, and impulsively chose sides. She had always been partial to the sons of the totems of Daw and Raven, even if this one did have a heathen accent and thieving ways.

Trusting that the pilot was concentrating on his moving target, she broke cover, ran lightly along the path and used the pier to launch herself at the stern of the marauding watercraft. She drew her sword in midleap, letting loose an Iceni war cry that hadn't been heard since the last Viking invasion. The unexpected ululation and the crashing addition of Ceirdwyn's weight rocked boat, disrupting his aim as he fired. Still, from over the side she heard a pained oath and faint struggling splash from the man in the water. Angered she might have arrived a step too late, she lunged, scoring his forearm deeply as the gun came around. His arm dropped straight down, a forearm muscle slashed, but he still gripped the gun.

"I think you got him, Leif! He went under. I'll get her..." the overmuscled man by the rail promised bravely, if misguidedly, especially given his injured hand. She had left herself open to his attack deliberately, and when he reached for her, she reached back, squeezing his injured hand enthusiatically. She winced against his high-pitched cry for help, and encouraged his momentum forward, leading him over her hip and headfirst into the metal housing of the Mercury outboard. She tapped him on the temple for good measure with the hilt of her sword to save her ears further assault.

She turned back to the pilot, Leif, as he vainly fumbled to tie off the hole in his arm with a handkerchief. His greying blond hair caught the watery winter sunlight, and his arctic eyes again stirred bloody memories of northern raiders. "Put down the gun, and help that man aboard, or I'll find a more inconvenient target for my blade," she warned, deliberately dropping the point of her sword to hover over a significantly more sensitive body part. "Then you and your man go over the side to join him."

"They just don't make minions like they used to, do they? No initiative, pitiful work ethic, tiny pain threshold," he shared with her in annoyance. "You can toss him right now, as far as I'm concerned." Then, with a great deal of initiative, and no hint of pain, he hauled his dangling forearm up by the twisted tourniquet, and shot her point blank below the breastbone. The impact pushed her staggering to the stern, and before she could recover, her new-made enemy turned and gunned the motor, toppling her off the beam into the frigid waters of the Sequana.

-2-

"Stop playing with that thing, or you'll get us arrested for indecent exposure," Methos complained as he steered his car into the cramped car park below his apartment. There was barely room to offload their luggage and groceries to restock the empty larder.

"In Paris?" MacLeod scoffed. "For bad fashion, maybe. Not art. This one should be displayed naked."

"It's a sword, MacLeod, not an etching." Methodically Methos stripped off their luggage tags--Toledo, Lisbon, Andorra.

"It's a Ramirez, Methos, smithed by his own hands and formed and fired in the finest forge in Toledo. It cries for attention, and appreciation."

"It cries for cleaning and sharpening, MacLeod. Otherwise it's just a glorified letter opener. And I still say there's something wrong with the balance." Mindful of the stairs to his apartment, Methos started loading MacLeod with the luggage, hanging the groceries over his elbows as well, while he followed with the trophy sword, hunched in his trench coat against the December wind.

"Be careful with it," MacLeod warned. "It will prove it's mettle, you'll see. It's a Ramirez!"

"Sentimentalist".

"Philistine."

"On occasion. Dagon had barley beer down," Methos agreed vaguely. "We should have taken Joe along to Toledo. He knows how to take you down a peg when you get giddy over souvenirs."

"He learned that from you. You're a bad influence on him. Besides, he said he was busy, and that kind of travel is getting hard on him."

"Don't you let him hear you say that. He'll end up tailing you over the salt road to Timbuktu, just to prove you wrong. Still, I think he was avoiding me even before we left. I mean, 'Gone Fishing?' What kind of excuse is that?"

"Is that a trick question?" MacLeod, who had grown up snaring salmon, asked with a furrowed brow.

"He's from Chicago, not Speyside. They don't eat the trout there and survive to his age."

"Maybe it's tax season."

"This is France. It's always tax season."

"Bar tab?"

"Paid it before we left."

"Then he's probably still recovering from the shock," MacLeod needled as he stumped to the top of the stairs, cheerfully juggling their belongings on the landing.

"Hah. Next month is your turn. The champagne's on you on New Year's Eve. And none of those cheap imitations. I want Domaine de la Fere." Methos unlocked the door and carefully checked the apartment before ushering him in and hanging up his duster and sword.

"I'll clean out my Swiss bank account." MacLeod carefully wiped off his boots before entering and delivered the groceries to the kitchen counter, the luggage to the bedroom. "You said Joe wasn't at the bar when you called from the airport?"

"I wanted to let him know we got back early. It looks better on his performance reviews when he stays ahead of the curve on your reports."

MacLeod smile took on an edge at the mention of the organization. "He could always retire."

"On what? Band gigs don't even keep him in guitar picks and coasters."

MacLeod glanced over, just to be sure Methos was joking. "He just has to give the word--we'll buy him a guitar pick factory," he vowed with abandon.

"What do you mean, we?" Methos disavowed just as quickly. "There's more money in coasters, anyway. Haven't you noticed there are more drinkers than dyspeptic dance-hall crooners?"

"I'm telling Joe you said that." Grinning, MacLeod took charge of the new sword, blowing off an invisible speck of dust and placing it on the mantel, before standing back to survey it proudly. "You're a beauty."

Methos pointedly ignored the sword, prefering to study the more esthetically pleasing parts of MacLeod's body when he returned to the kitchen. His attention divided, he stabbed at his cell phone one last time. "Amanda! What did you do with Joe while we were gone? Call me!" Methos clicked his phone closed and shoved it deep into his pocket, nettled. "She never calls, he never writes..." he muttered.

"You just miss him because he doesn't critique your yarning," MacLeod called out from behind the refrigerator door, as he put away the fresh provisions. "Or is it Amanda you miss? Counting the Pyrenees, we were only gone a few days. How much trouble can they have gotten into in under a week?"

"You're kidding, right? We're talking Joe, here. Going Christmas shopping with _Amanda_. A true sign the apocalyse is upon us. I should know."

"You should know," MacLeod agreed solemnly.

"Being cheeky will cost you a beer. Where's the Artois?" Methos asked.

"Behind the cabbage."

"Silly place for it," Methos complained, then jumped as MacLeod cheekily tweaked him in a strategically sensitive spot as he bent over to search the cooler. As Methos whirled around, MacLeod backed away, blinking as innocently as a Highland sheep. "You worry too much about Joe. He's survived Amanda's wiles for years. He may be the only man to resist her charms and live to tell the tale."

"Besides me?" Methos returned swiftly, only to groan as MacLeod grinned knowingly.

"That's not the way I heard it. Amanda was miffed last week after you spilled the beans to Joe about the Bishop, the actress and the amateur pearl diver. She spilled back."

"She told you about the trip to the Virgin Islands? I can explain that..."

"The way Amanda told it, there was nothing virginal about it," MacLeod said with mock sadness. "Warm beach, full moon, hot limbo music, you didn't have a chance."

"That will teach you to go celibate on me." Methos closed his eyes, and enjoyed a moment of perfect recall. "When you dance for me on a moonlit beach with your toes curling in the foamy waves, I promise to let you have your way with me, too, MacLeod."

"Alas, my poor attempts to seduce you with flamenco in Toledo seem to have left you aloof and parched for her company."

"There were a hundred other people in that bar, MacLeod! Speaking of being arrested in flagrante flamenco."

"There's only the two of us now." With deliberate flair, MacLeod's narrow hips twitched to the left, then slid to the right, snapping forward, taunting. The hard heels of his boots cracked against the tile floor, hammering out a tale of hungry desire.

Leaving the refrigerator door hanging open, Methos stalked toward MacLeod, beer forgone, if not forgotten. His own boot heels clicked with sharp precision, clear and threatening. His hands closed about MacLeod's wrists, fingers barely brushing the skin over his pulse. Slowly, he raised MacLeod's arms over his head. He caught his breath as MacLeod slowly dipped his lips to his neck, running his hot tongue just under his jaw in sultry defiance.

"There's nothing virginal about you, either," Methos breathed into his ear, feeling their hips close, hard need dueling through soft denim. With a swift shift of weight and tug of arm, he had MacLeod bent backwards over the long kitchen bar, arms still overhead in false surrender. Gently, now, gently he moved against him, daring MacLeod to regain control. "It's time I taught you to respect your elders."

"Never trust anyone over thirty five hundred..."

"See? You're learning already."

MacLeod deliberately drew the toe of his boot up, pressing and caressing the inseam of Methos' jeans. "Let's skip to chapter two."

"I think you need some remedial work," Methos chided, controlling the disrespectful and highly distracting boot by sliding between MacLeod's legs, edging forward until he lightly brushed the bulge beneath his button fly.

MacLeod arched, and Methos eased back, denying him the full contact he desired. "Not yet, you trollop." He tasted the hollow of his neck. "Tart." Explored the lobe of his ear. "Tease." Nudged his knees farther apart, finally leaning over to nip open the buttons of his silky shirt. Gently he eased his hands inside the folds of material to stroke MacLeod from his tight shoulders to twitching flanks, smoothing the knotting muscles beneath the skin.

"You've been flaunting yourself since we left Spain. If I'd known tracking down one of Ramirez's Toledo blades made you this horny, I'd have left you clues to his armory years ago."

"There's an armory?" Pretending to be derailed by the vision of a medieval hall lined with gleaming Toledo steel, MacLeod drew his arms down and half sat up, thwarting the subtle pattern that Methos was drawing from his neck to his nethers.

"Ah, ah! Pay attention. You're a terrible student, MacLeod."

"You keep going over the same material," MacLeod pointed out helpfully.

"It's excellent material." Methos made him pay for the disrespectful remark with a quick, promising nip to the sensitive edge of his right pectoral. "Pity that won't leave a mark," Methos said with his best pitiless smile, and he bent to rake and ravage the Highlander's torso with torturously gentle licks and lashings from his tongue.

Methos began to move his hips to a long, sliding rhythm, up MacLeod's trapped cock and slowly down, rubbing his own length hard and fast against a straining quad, or an inner thigh, treating himself while teasing MacLeod unmercifully.

Methos savored each tiny breaking point of pleasure he induced in MacLeod, until his willing victim gathered and snapped, and twisted up from the counter with a swift and stunning reversal, pinning him to the cold kitchen floor. Tumbling and tangling, their legs battled for leverage and locked to grind their clothing-trapped bodies impossibly closer, until finally they came, laughing and swearing and gasping for air.

"Race you to the shower," Methos craftily dared MacLeod, who lay across his chest, limp as a sleeping cat, and heavy as a Bengal tiger.

"You first," MacLeod offered generously, barely even moving his lips.

"What if Joe walks in?" Methos speculated, pulling the Watcher card.

"He's gone fishing."

"Or he's gone shopping..."

"If he's been shopping with Amanda, he's seen more terrifying sights than the two of us glued together on the kitchen floor," MacLeod reminded him sleepily.

"Good point," Methos gave up in the face of superior logic and strategy, resigned to a short and happy stint as MacLeod's mattress. He'd had worse careers in his checkered past. Much worse.

-3-

Amanda blew through her door and caught up her phone just as it stopped humming on the side table. It would have been rude to bring a phone to the manicurist, after all, somewhat like bringing an alarm clock to church or a boom box to the library. At least she thought it was--mores changed so quickly nowadays, faster than the new toys came out.

Amanda stared at the voice mail notices on her phone, scrolling down the screen with a long red fingernail. Pearl garnet, to be exact. It matched the earrings she had picked up in Luxembourg on that little job for Fitz during the war. Which war she didn't bother recalling--they all tended to run together after the first century or so. "Methos, probably an annoying reminder about the solstice tomorrow, as if I'd forget, Lucy, the accountant will take care of that one, Bert, I don't think so, darling, Methos again. But no Joe. That's not like Joe, to leave a lady waiting," she murmured, frowning.

She studied the final entry, a number she didn't recognize. If it was another automatic dial phone spam, she was going to get her second story gear out of storage and raid a few corporate headquarters, promise or no promise to MacLeod. With creative vengeances firmly in mind, she tapped the final message.

"Hello? Is this Amanda? Of course not, it's voice mail. Listen, don't erase me, I really, really need to talk to you. It's about, um, that thing that you asked, um, a mutual guy we know to look into, uh, okay, it's Joe, right? I can't talk now, it's not safe, and I'm in trouble. And I think I might have got Joe in trouble, too, accidentally, really! But he doesn't know that they had all this surveillance that I didn't know about, and they saw all this stuff and heard all this stuff, and now I think they're after me. And him, too. But I can't talk now. Um. Yeah. And I can't like, call his guy, either, you know, the big guy, that Joe er...you know. Because he's out of town, which everyone knows, with that other guy, the weird dangerous dude, that I so don't want to meet, so don't tell him I said that! I heard what happened to Stern. That was gnarly. Can you meet me, like, by the bridge, you know the one, where the car blew up and the Watchers all got shot and Joe was blamed for it even though he wasn't even in the country, you know that bridge? Because I think I know how to get Rebecca's crystals back, and Joe's out trying it out, and now it turns out someone who shouldn't know does know and they're going after them too, and that's bad, you know? So, if you can please, please, meet me at the bridge, I'll bring all the stuff, I'm going there right now, I'll call you from the bridge, see you, bye. Oh. Yeah. My name's Skip."

"Of course it is, Skippy," Amanda crooned dangerously. Halfway through the message she was already donning her hunting outfit, with extra ankle holster and throwing knives. "Kids these days. Whatever happened to 'Joey's fallen down the well, come help?' "

-4-

Before MacLeod could commence snoring, the vibration of Methos' cell phone in his pocket roused them both.

"You keep it there? On vibrate?" MacLeod inquired, a bit scandalized. "I'm amazed you don't dial yourself."

"Constantly. What do you think I borrow your phone for?" Methos returned, as he tried to dig it out. "I'm amazed it's still ticking, after the abuse you gave it."

"Ticking, or tickling?" MacLeod's expression of innocence was seriously undercut by the wicked enthusiasm with which he assisted Methos to extract the phone.

Methos retrieved the device and curled up and wrapped his arms around his knees to prevent MacLeod from 'helping' further. "Allo?" He listened for a short time, then shot to his feet. "Vite. Tell me when and where." He motioned for MacLeod to get up and find them both a change of clothes, and switched to Dutch for the rest of his conversation, until MacLeod wandered back in with . "Who? All right. Stay in touch. My thanks, Madame. You are a jewel beyond price."

MacLeod blatantly eavesdropped, but his Dutch was rusty and Methos' questions had been short and carefully worded. "Who was that?"

Methos folded up the phone, and frowned, mechanically taking the clean pair of jeans that MacLeod handed him. "My favorite librarian. Eugenie. She's a good friend of Joe's, too. I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't an item, back in the day, before she married respectably."

"Joe's not respectable?"

"We are talking about the same man, right? The guy with a pesky hobby of shooting you in the back? Itinerant musician and voyeur? The monk without portfolio?"

"And you two sharing unsafe librarians. Joe has been hiding some of his best vices from me. He wasn't with you in the Caribbean, too, was he?"

"Amanda wishes. Hell, I wish. But he caught your celibacy one year like some sort of horrible virus." Methos shuddered, and snatched the warmer of the two sweaters MacLeod proffered. "Besides, the last real vacation Joe took, the Grateful Dead were still touring Egypt." Which made Joe's current scarcity even more out of character.

"What's wrong?" MacLeod asked, picking up on Methos' sense of urgency. "Who was that?"

"Eugenie Mohrman heads the European Archive. She catalogs everything Immortal, from chronicles to swords to legacies. You remember Daniel Geiger? The man who would be Immortal? They found one of Rebecca's crystals on his body when it washed up, years ago, and it went back into Eugenie's vault. Except that somehow, this week, the crystal has gone missing. Luther's chronicles pertaining to the stone have been tampered with, too, as well as some key papers of Rebecca's."

"And the Watcher's head archivist called you?" There was a definite note of skepticism in MacLeod's voice. "I didn't know the Watchers sent out overdue notices to lapsed researchers."

"She knows my...interest...in those particular entries. And she's worried."

"Were you the last one to check them out?" MacLeod asked softly, in respect for Alexa.

"No, not me. They've been locked up since Regional Coordinator Stern got himself killed trying to nab all the pieces. Such a loss," Methos added with arid insincerity.

"Not to mention the doubly devious Daniel Geiger," MacLeod muttered darkly. "So who looked at the crystal last?"

"Joe. Joe did. Eugenie let him into the vault just three days ago. And now she says he's missing, too."

MacLeod tossed Methos his coat and sword, and buttoned up his shirt before donning his own duster. "We need to find Amanda. It sounds like she took Joe on one hell of a shopping spree."

-5-

Ceirdwyn roused from the Otherworld with a great inhalation of air, which rather surprised her. She should have been swallowing cloudy water from the stirred up bottom muck in the shallows of the icy river. Instead, she was lying on relatively comfortable, if equally cold, shore muck from the weedy bank under the pier. Each revival had it's own unique discomforts, but she would take breathing air over water any day, no matter what Ramirez raved.

The mad peacock would have breathed ammonia if he could have convinced a space traveler to take him to Venus, just to see the sights. He was strange, that way. It saddened her that he didn't get the chance.

A dried cattail reed snapped, bringing her fully into the present. She was being watched. Her skin prickled as she carefully drew the dagger from the sheath hidden above her ankle. Rolling to a position of attack, Ceirdwyn nearly skewered a silvering old warrior who was elbowing his upper body toward her through the reeds. He had leaned perilously close, no doubt in hopes of looting the dead. She had done the same, often enough, in more pragmatic times.

"Dammit, lady, be careful with that thing." He held up his corded right arm, clearly still hale enough to wield a heavy sword, but his hand was empty, weaponless. His other arm stayed wrapped tightly around his torso, and she could hear his teeth clicking against the cold.

"I _am_ careful with this thing. It's generally considered poor tactics to lead with your throat," Ceirdwyn noted as she studied her captive. Soaking wet and covered in mud to the ears, he seemed more annoyed than afraid. "It isn't wise to surprise a person who has just been shot at. They're liable to be cranky."

"Tell me about it," he conceded with a sideways grin that bespoke experience in the matter. "But I'm not the one who shot you," he pointed out.

"Shot at me. I'm not injured," she prevaricated. "The water just shocked me for a moment."

"Of course, the bullet hole in your shirt is just a new fad." he said, blithely shrugging off her transparent excuse for not being dead. "Shot, shot at, just semantics. I owe you thanks, by the way. I thought I was a goner, until you came out of nowhere."

"I wasn't 'nowhere.' I was inspecting the estate. An estate where you are trespassing, by the way, and burgling a boat."

"I never burgle! Trespassing...eh," he made a rocking motion with his hand. "A friend gave me the key. Somewheres." He patted a soggy pocket. "If it isn't at the bottom of the river with my Glock. And my cell phone," he added despondently. "You wouldn't have one on you?"

Ceirdwyn shook her head. She didn't carry one on holy ground. The magicks were incompatible, and they angered the air.

"Oh, incidentally, the name is Joe," he added, holding out his right hand with misplaced optimism.

"Ceirdwyn," she allowed, though her knife didn't waver. Being shot at excited her issues about trusting strangers. "Do you always go fishing with an automatic weapon?" she asked acidly.

"I do when the fish are six feet tall and carry sharp swords. I kind of prefer being the one bringing the gun to a knife fight, all else being equal," Joe said, laughing at a private joke. "These guys weren't on the agenda, though, and I just wasn't expecting them to ram first and ask questions later. Shooting and rowing are kind of mutually exclusive operations."

"They carry swords as well?" Ceirdwyn asked sharply.

"Well, you were, and you dropped it in the boat," he observed dryly.

"And what would they even want with a sword?"

Her captive dropped all sign of pretense. "All the better to kill you with, my dear. And believe me, they know how. They're fanatics, who consider Immortals an abomination of the natural order of life. Once Immortals are eliminated, human manifest destiny is restored. In other words, they're batshit crazy."

"And you're not?" Ceirdwyn remarked, remembering the peculiar sight of him leaning over the river, singing.

"The jury's still out on that," Joe admitted.

"Who are you to them? What were you looking for in the river? When did you find out about Immortals? And why aren't you dying of hypothermia?"

He ignored the first three questions and answered the fourth. "Freezing to death? Still an option," he admitted with a chattering grin. He flashed open his tattered windbreaker, revealing a wetsuit, before wrapping his arm tightly against himself again. "It's just taking a little longer than Leif figured. But you can get away before he comes back to search the river for bodies. Confusion to our enemies!" he laughed, and Ceirdwyn realized the hypothermia was probably more advanced than she had first thought.

"It seems to me that batshit is catching." Ceirdwyn sighed, and put away her knife. So far, her miscreant seemed mostly harmless, and even somewhat helpful. The quick look beneath his coat had also revealed splinters of what might have been the dory's freeboard embedded in the neoprene along his ribs. That had to hurt, or it would after he thawed out. She studied the drag marks leading down to the shore, and the mud covering his body, clicked her tongue at the sight of his his lower legs still trailing back, obscured under the murky water. "You pulled me out, and pushed me up onto the bank," she realized, reshuffling her assumptions.

Joe shrugged. "It seemed the least I could do. But you'd better get going, now. I know a little something about this guy, Leif, and he will be back. He may bring a lot of friends, too, now that he knows an Immortal is here."

"I'm not going anywhere without you. I have far too many questions. Still, we can put them aside until we find a hot fire and a warm brandy. Now, up you go, let's get you out of that water and onto your feet..." She found her own footing and caught him by the collar, ignoring his strikingly lurid protests, until she realized that his extremities did not trail into the river at all.

"Where are your legs?" she found herself shouting, unreasonably angered at the thought of losing even an unschooled bard, right after she had found him. But there was no sign of blood loss, or broken bone.

"Up on the pier," he pointed beyond her, to a large, misshapen duffle, adding in a much put upon tone, "I didn't want to get them wet. The dory leaked."

"You _are_ crazy," Ceirdwyn repeated, this time failing to keep the admiration out of her voice.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Now hand me my legs, and the brandy will be on me."

-6-

"So. You have a personal librarian?" MacLeod asked as he drove through the narrow streets, intrigued. "I should look into the possibilities."

"What, and demote Joe? What do you think he does all night, locked in his office? Update his Facebook page?"

MacLeod grinned. "Nope. I do that for him."

Methos automatically checked the rainy streets for surveillance as they left the Paris traffic behind them. "You do like to live dangerously, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Reckless Endangerment. If Joe ever catches on you've been impersonating him online..."

"Not impersonating. Chronicling. A little quid pro quo. Besides, somebody needs to get his online act together--you should see the nonsense someone is putting up about him on MySpace."

"Amateur," Methos huffed, shifting in his seat. "I'll have you know his gigs have doubled since those bootlegs of him at Le Jazz Hot were posted."

"What happens when he reads the profile? 'Single, but searching?' And how about 'Too Romantic to Marry?' " MacLeod's hands left the wheel to put in air quotes. "He's going to have a fit when he figures it out."

"No one takes those seriously. And I won't stab you if you won't tell on me," Methos offered reasonably.

MacLeod considered. "Sounds like a deal. Joe will shoot us both, anyway, when he finds out. Might as well keep the dry cleaning to a minimum."

"I'm going to try the bar again," Methos said, restlessly dialing again. "Hi. Yeah, I'm looking for Joe. Well, I did call earlier, but..." Methos frowned. "There's no need to be rude about it." And he snapped the phone shut.

"What did he say?"

"I believe the precise words were, 'What part of 'Gone Fishing' don't you understand?' "

"Turn up here--the closest parking is on the right."

MacLeod turned right, but didn't bother with legalities and simply double-parked in front of Amanda's door. They both tensed, in turns relieved and annoyed to detect an Immortal signature. They glanced at each other before ascending the walkway together, their senses heightened against ambush. Therefore, they weren't completely taken unawares when the door burst open and Amanda swept out in full battle regalia. Catching them both by the elbow, she steered them sternly to the street.

"Back in the car, boys. We have a job to do."

MacLeod bowed Amanda into the back seat, and she accepted his hand with a regal nod. Still, after climbing in, MacLeod locked the childproofed rear doors to make sure she found no other pressing engagements. He and Methos turned to face Amanda, and asked as one, "Where is Joe?"

Amanda leaned back and cocked her head. "That was very peculiar. It sounded as if you two think I should know. But I haven't seen him since just after you two went haring off looking for that forged pigsticker Ramirez fobbed off on the Archbishop of Aragon to get the Inquisition off his back."

"He did not!" MacLeod instinctively defended his teacher's teacher. "Ramirez was a master craftsman!"

"Ramirez was crafty, all right," Amanda admitted with a knowing smile. "And he built that sword to fail, no matter who the Archbishop hired to handle it--the Archbishop was partial to using accomplished assassins when he couldn't bring the Inquisition to bear. Ramirez hated him, and made it his game to foil him at every turn. Every assassin who used it met with ill luck in duels."

There was a tinny beep, as cars stacked up behind them on the narrow street. MacLeod pulled out, glaring at Amanda through the rear-view mirror. "What does this have to do with Joe?"

"I'm getting to that. Go north and east. We need to get to the Sequana Bridge."

"Where the crystals were lost," Methos observed quietly, as if that made all the sense in the world.

"Is Joe there?" MacLeod asked with exaggerated patience.

Her worry unmasked, Amanda replied, "I hope not."

"Why?" Methos didn't bother with a patient veneer.

"I think it's a trap. Just like the last time. Listen. You need to hear this." Amanda withdrew her phone and gently tapped the screen, replaying the message from the unlucky Skip. Ignoring the stunned silence that followed, she blithely carried on with her tale.

"So after you two left for sunny Spain, Joe and I got together to commiserate about being left behind in the rain in Paris. I was telling Joe about the sword, and how Ramirez sabotaged it to handicap the Archbishop's agents...oh, and by the way, MacLeod, it's not a good idea to use it for a kata. The wily old fraud hid pockets of mercury in the tang, handle and offset in the blade--it will, quite literally, turn on you."

"I appreciate the warning," MacLeod said, his enthusiasm for all things Toledo considerably dampened. "Watch out for it, by the way, I threw it in the trunk with a couple of extra live blades. I didn't want to leave it untended in the apartment."

"Still not hearing the connection, Amanda," Methos said with careful politeness.

Amanda wisely decided to revise her tale for speed. "It's like I was telling Joe that night. The last time I saw Ramirez, he was talking with Rebecca about the crystals. She was teasing him about the Archbishop's sword, and whether or not all his gifts were flawed.

"Leaving out the obvious ribald exchange that followed, he eventually took her inquiry quite seriously. He took her pendant, and held it up, and he sang this old lay, like the jongleurs play when the marks are sad and in their cups. It was like two suns rose, the room lit so brightly! And he asked, "Are the flaws in the gifts, or in ourselves?"

There was a long silence, broken only by the whoosh of traffic as MacLeod passed car after car. "And then what?" he finally asked.

"Well, then we went to bed, of course."

"All of you?"

"Where were you in the fifteenth century? Clearly not in a clammy castle in France in the dead of winter. Of course, together."

"And then you told Joe everything you knew about the crystals?"

"Well, it's not like either of you would give him the whole story. And we were sad. And in our cups. So I taught him what I remembered of the old lay."

"And let me guess, your chip of crystal lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Well, no, since I wasn't wearing it," Amanda snapped. "And remember, most of Ramirez's magic came down to charlatan's tricks. It was a song. Only a song. Nothing magical about it. I think they still sing snatches of it in bars."

"When people are sad, and in their cups," Methos whispered, his attention straying very far away.

"The Methuselah stone wasn't magic, Methos," Amanda said gently. "It wasn't even Methuselah's, the old fart, if you can believe Ramirez. The crystal was wonderful, it was beautiful, and it was strange, but it didn't save Daniel Geiger from being shot down like the dog he was, even though he was holding it right there in his hand and believed in it with all his might."

"Then why would Joe steal the fragment left in the Watcher vault?" MacLeod asked.

"He what?" Amanda, astonished, stared at them both in disbelief. "Why in the names of all the saints the church made us both memorize, would he do something as foolish as that?" Then her professional pride kicked in. "Without my help?"

"For the best reason in the world," Methos straightened, and came back to the present. "You were both sad, and in your cups. And Joe wanted to cheer you up."

Amanda sighed. "It would have been easier to go to bed together. That would have cheered me no end."

"MacLeod, you and your monastic retreats have a lot to answer for," Methos growled.

"Amen," Amanda agreed.

-7-

Ceirdwyn fetched the duffle from the pier, surprised at the heft. The swing weight must be nearly twenty pounds. She worried about their mobility--the footing away from the main paths to the castle was uneven at best, and rocky and clogged with undergrowth in the woods beyond. Rebecca prized this retreat for it's distance from civilization, not it's convenience, and she didn't believe in taming and manicuring nature. "Your car is close?" she asked calmly, scouting upriver for more intruders.

"Back at the gate," he said unhappily. "Hell of a hike, for me, anyway, and no cover, dead end road. If Leif did his homework, they already found it."

Leif had struck her as a man who did his homework. "My Jaguar is too far, at the edge of the preserve. I was in a mood for a walk."

"You drive a Jag? Nice..." his voice faded, and she worried his attention was wandering, until he added, "...you hear that? The speedboat, only this time it's in low gear. He's pacing his reinforcements. They're probably sweeping the bank. You gotta move."

" _We_ have to move," she reminded him. She was brooking no argument on that point. Crossing the river was not an option, in Joe's condition, and downstream the lavender field stretched nearly a hectare, devoid of cover, before the ancient, untracked wood blocked their way. "You see that line of willows, leading toward the keep? They mark an old ditch. We can follow it without being seen."

"An old diversion for a moat?" Joe asked, curious despite the circumstances.

"The old sewer."

"I had to ask."

A distant burbling rumble did trouble her ears, now that she realized the source. "Polluters," she spit.

"Probably gas guzzlers, too," Joe added, snarling as he still fumbled to untangle his wet clothes and cram the sockets on over the damp neoprene. "It would be faster to gorilla walk."

"It would be faster to carry you," Ceirdwyn said shortly. It was a command, not a suggestion.

"The hell," her companion protested, but his numbed fingers couldn't hold on as she reloaded the duffel. "Dammit."

"Save your anger for the enemy." She survived his glare, singed but unshaken. The technique for carrying a fallen comrade returned to her all to easily, and with a grunt she hauled him over her shoulder, wincing at the hissing sibilant oaths that no doubt bode dire vengeances in the future. "Hush. If you cooperate, I'll come back for your feet." She kicked the duffel under the pier into some deep weeds, out of plain sight.

A grim, surly truce descended, and she stumped her way to cover and half way to the keep before the first squad of hunters appeared at the treeline and they had to go to their bellies in the frozen ditch. His face had paled to a few shades nearer snow, and belatedly she remembered the broken splinters in his side. Still, there was no choice. They would have been picked off like tame pigeons sitting in the open.

She eeled around, intent on sliding down the ditch and making a run for the duffel, but a firm hand on her shoulder stopped her. "I promised," she said as firmly as she could while still keeping her voice to a whisper.

"Later. When it's over," he whispered back. "If you get unlucky and they see you, we're pinned to the wall. But right now, we keep our heads down, they have to waste time searching where we aren't."

"You've done this before. I took you for a warrior from the start."

"Long, long ago, in a land far, far away. But we never forget, do we?" he grinned.

"No. We never forget."

"Okay. Now that we've got that straight, last one to the castle has to buy the next round," and without another word, he dug into the ditch rubble and root, making more than fair progress on arm, elbow and stump, easing over or around dry sticks that might snap, and leaving little trace for her to erase. He had, indeed, done this before.

Soon they were signalling comfortably with their hands, chancing glances to keep track of the men behind them, who had made the pier and were milling. Ceirdwyn made out a half a dozen footmen, as well as the same two in the boat. The hulking one had a visible wrapping around his hand, and held it to his chest. "A fine blow, Joe. I think you broke it in many places," she complimented.

"Leif isn't looking too happy, either."

"I should have skewered his liver," she complained, unhappy with her aim. "I need to practice more on watercraft."

"Damn, they found my legs," Joe swore. One man was dumping them out of the bag, and laughter carried over the hard frozen ground.

"Keep going, Joe. We'll get them. Later." They were running out of time, and still a hundred meters to go. If the search party continued downstream, they would make the line of willows far sooner.

After the next quick survey, Joe frowned and waved her forward, pointing. "What the hell?" he breathed in her ear.

She chanced a look, and froze, then dropped to the bottom of the ditch, grinning as the pack of hunters broke into a run, crashing through the willows to the other side without even one looking in their direction. Joe shook his head, confused. "They're overrunning the ditch. Heading into that field. What's going on?" Even the boat gunned it's motor, bypassing their position.

"Confusion to our enemies." Still laughing quietly, she pushed him forward. They'd make the castle now. Andarte had smiled upon them, and granted them precious time.

"They're chasing a wild hare."

-8-

To MacLeod's growing horror, Methos took over Amanda's phone and replayed the message over, and over, and over, again.

"Interesting. It's like English, only nearly devoid of any truly meaningful verbs or nouns. You know?" He tapped the phone again, fascinated. "I think we may be listening to the invention of an entirely new form of communication."

MacLeod snatched the phone and held it out the window over the asphalt. "Enough. As pilot of this car, I refuse to listen again. Angles and Saxons are spinning in their graves all over Europe. Even a patriotic Scot like me wouldn't torture them, like, further."

"I don't think you quite have it down, darling. Start slowly, with an 'as if' or two," Amanda piped in from the back seat. She reached out the window and neatly plucked the phone to safety. "Careful with that. It's this century's little black book."

"I'll let Joe know, he could use some new material," Methos perked up.

"Don't you dare. I don't want to scare him. He's still at the top of the list of 'The Ones Who Got Away...So Far."

"Where am I?" Methos made playful grab.

"Careful, or I'll put you under "Parties Like It's 1999...BCE."

"Ow, MacLeod! Amanda's being mean."

"Behave, you two. Don't make me stop this car and throw you both in the trunk to duke it out."

"I love it when he's forceful, don't you?" Amanda winked at Methos.

"It's one of his best selling points. Why, on the Carthaginian market, I could probably get twenty goats and a water buffalo for him, easy."

"Only one?" MacLeod asked, crestfallen. But then his face grew serious, and he slowed the car as they approached the exit second nearest the bridge. "Inventory time. So far, we really don't have much more to go on than a worried librarian, a panicky geek, and a couple of tall bar tales. We don't have anything solid telling us Joe's doing anything but doing some Christmas trimming and taking some long deserved time off. On the other hand, behind all the wisecracks, the three of us are so jumpy that we're talking about everything but the possibiity that we might be looking at another war with the Watchers."

"I'll show him trimming, if he's having us on," Methos growled, but his heart wasn't in it. "Inventory it is. What's our arsenal? Besides the usual?" Volunteering his own automatic with three clips first, he counted a vintage Beretta that MacLeod kept in a well-hidden compartment in the door. Amanda brought three hideouts to the party as well.

"Doesn't that confuse the clientele?" Methos observed as she slipped one particular one back, ducking as she punched him over the seat.

"Too bad we used up all the C4 on the last trip to the bridge."

"Rebecca ran guns for the Resistance...the old Abbey cellars are only about twenty miles upstream from here," Amanda suggested thoughtfully.

"Let's make that a rendezvous if we get outgunned and separated," MacLeod decided. "I'm surprised that the Watchers didn't try and buy her place for one of their headquarters."

"They tried," Amanda offered with a vulpine smile. "I made sure it wasn't for sale." The chime of her phone brought them up. Setting it to speaker, Amanda cheerily answered. "Allo, cherie?"

"Uh." There was a long silence. "Hello?"

"Yes?" Amanda dragged out the silence with a bit of evil glee. "Who is this?"

"Unh. It's, that is, my name's Skip." Another long, nervous silence.

"Skip! I've been very much looking forward to meeting you," Amanda purred. "Are you alone, Skip?"

"What? Alone?" Now the agitated tone bleeding through the phone sounded considerably more than just nerves. She frowned, glancing at MacLeod.

"It sounds as if he's wants to tell us something, and can't quite follow through," he barely whispered.

"Tell me what you want most of all, Skip," Amanda kept the alluring tone, for the benefit of listeners, flaunting her own considerably wicked reputation.

"I, uh...wanted to show you...no...really...there's..." the three Immortals could hear a subtle change in Skip's voice, as if he had made a decision, and only needed to talk himself into it. Suddenly, a thud and a curse muddied the background, and Skip was shouting. "Trap! Save Joe! He's at Rebec..." and then there was a pistol blast, and the phone went dead.

"He followed through," Methos momentarily shut his eyes.

Eyes bright with tears, Amanda agreed, "Magnificently."

-9-

Cold as Highland granite, MacLeod turned to Methos, a chieftain at war. "We can approach the Abbey from over the tor--the trees reach the bailey." He put the car in gear, and pinned the accelerator.

"What about the bridge?" Amanda asked.

Methos nodded slowly. "You can let me off just past the bridge exit. It's only a few hundred yards from there as the crow flies. We shouldn't leave enemies at our backs."

"No. Our young Skip called me. He's my responsibility," Amanda said coldly.

"We'll be stretched thin as it is, and the enemy is already thinking you're coming to the castle," MacLeod objected. "There's no cavalry to come over the hill if we don't get through."

"Exactly! They think I'm coming. Alone. They don't know you're in town. If I hit the bridge, they'll relax their guard at the castle. You'll have better odds."

"And with the bridge contingent thinking she's going to Rebecca's, they'll be easier to surprise." Methos' voice softened. "Amanda's right, MacLeod. We need her to lead the diversion."

The window of opportunity was terrifyingly narrow, but doable, and the turnoff was coming up fast. MacLeod slammed on the brakes. "You live, Amanda. Promise."

"Always, Duncan," she brushed her lips over his cheek as she left the car.

"I'll keep your cell phone safe for you," Methos offered brightly.

"In your dreams, Methos!" her reply floated back as she catfooted into the shadowed wood.

MacLeod was already back on the road, tapping his hand on the wheel. They were missing something. "What about your cell, Methos? Who do you have on speed dial?"

"Most of the Immortals friendly enough to help you help a Watcher are also smart enough to get out of Paris in December. That's pretty much all your cavalry for you."

"It is if we didn't have this backwards. Joe's the target here. Now who's the one person with real firepower you know who has such an outstanding karmic debt with Joe that they'd have to help us?"

Methos stared at MacLeod, thinking. Then his face brightened, and he slapped MacLeod's shoulder with pride. "That's my boy! Go to the head of the class! Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, time to pay the piper..." and Methos tapped his speed dial. "Eugenie? I think we're on to what happened. It's very important you get this information into the right hands. I need you to contact the Director of Internal Security, Mike Barrett. Yeah, that Mike Barrett. The one who ratted out Joe to the Tribunal, then didn't show up to the trial. I know they don't talk. Tell him it's time to pay up..."

-10-

There were only a few yards to go. The ditch lead to the old moat and the gate to the bailey, and then to the inner sanctums of Rebecca's retreat. But her companion was suffering. The frozen rocks burned even her Immortal hands--his whitened and bled, though he bore it without complaint.

"Too slow..."

His words, not her's, but he was right. They were moving too slow, and the boat was circling, picking up two of their footmen, and speeding back. No, speeding past. "It's going back upriver. Why?"

"Outta hot chocolate?" Joe rested, trying in vain to warm his hands against his body. He'd stopped shivering. That was bad. "I think it's getting warmer." That was very bad.

"Let's go, Joe, and I'll make you a cocoa with schnapps."

"Promises, promises...buy the gals a drink and they end up breaking your heart." he hauled in a deep breath, marshalling energy where there was none for one last push. "Let's get outta here before I tell you the history of my love life. Oh, wait. Done."

Ceirdwyn moved up even with him and draped his arm over her back. "We're not done yet. Moving on, Joe. Moving on."

There was a shout. And a shot. A bullet zinged away in ricochet, pocking a fifteen hundred year old arch. The bailey gate. Breaking cover, hauling Joe by the neoprene collar, Ceirdwyn tumbled through and rolled Joe out of the line of fire. She crashed the door closed and leaned against it, hearing bullets ping and shouts grow closer. Vainly, she cast about for the bar to the gate. There was no way to keep them out. She steadied herself on the ancient gatepost and called on Andarte.

"You looking for this?" Joe interrupted her with a pained expression, as he rolled off a long age-blackened timber--the gate bar.

Promising Andarte her due sacrifice, she dropped the bar in the irons just as a thud sounded. The gate barely vibrated, still sound and strong.

"What were you going to do?" Joe asked. "Without the bar, I mean?"

"When they got to the door, I would have held it for two blows, and let them through on the third, taken them down in the confusion, and armed myself with their weapons."

"Works for me."

They had a respite. "It will take them time to force the keep. I count nine, unless the boat brings back more."

"Le Hibou Nuit."

"What?"

"Le Hibou Nuit. The name of the boat. The Night Owl. In case you want to look up the owner someday."

"Owl is a bad omen for you Ravens."

"Ravens?"

"Ravens, Crows, Daws, your namesake. You should beware the owl."

"I'll write that down," he promised, though she doubted he really understood her. Though his eyes were still bright, he'd stopped moving. The cold was slowly stealing him away.

-11-

Amanda sprinted through the trees, a shadow in the winter twilight. When they thinned ahead, she could barely make out the bridge. Three men maneuvered a van to the edge of the river, with the clear intent of pushing it in. Three men lounged in a boat, where a man directed operations from below. Clearly, no one expected anyone to bother about poor Skippy. Six in all. This was doable.

She had almost made the road, flitting from tree to tree, when a guard stepped out from behind an oak not ten feet away. Cupping his hand around a cigarette, in mid-inhale, he could not get off a warning. Momentarily revising her count to seven, her favorite throwing knife buried itself in his throat. Amanda barely broke stride to wipe it off.

The next two were easy--they had their heads down, removing a barricade, while in the van, a man with a heavy wrapping around his hand and large bruise on his forehead looked over his shoulder, trying to steer into position. One man on the barricade sagged against his companion, her second favorite knife buried in his back. Protesting, his partner pushed him off. His muttered imprecation was never finished--Amanda's favorite throwing knife never had a chance to get cold.

"One, Two, Buckle my shoe," Amanda singsonged as she stepped up to the driver, opened the door, and crashed the hilt of her third knife on his cheekbone. "Three, Four, shut the door..." and the doorframe slammed back on the bandaged hand. Her victim melted out of the truck when she opened the door again, stone cold unconscious.

"Wow. You must be Amanda."

Amanda pulled her gun, peering into the cab cautiously. A wisp of a boy, barely out of his teens, was tied up and buckled into the seat, barely able to move. Blood soaked his right jean leg from the knee down. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Wow. You must be Skippy."

-12-

"Nice car," Methos mused, as they pulled up next to a classic Jaguar. "Lots of power. High maintenance, though."

"Do I sense a comparison?" MacLeod asked as he offloaded their weapons, blades, guns and strong, thin cord, girding for speed.

"I would never call you high maintenance," Methos said virtuously, adding sotto voce, "...to your face..."

"Git." He surveyed the wooded hills. "I remember a mule cart path that lead to the abbey around here."

"The path is older than cartwheels," Methos agreed, mapping the contour of the hill in his mind. "This way, I think. The trees move, but the hills endure." Methos led the way, stretching his legs in a mile-eating pace, testing MacLeod's endurance against the hills. They ran silently, pushing each other, sharing a fierce joy in each small sprint won. Still, the sun was westering when they topped out on the tor, breathing hard but evenly, warmed to the prospect of combat.

"These shrines are very old," Methos preened inside the veil of holy ground. "Yet, a believer has been tending them."

"Someone has been here very recently," MacLeod noted the branches and leaves swept back from the stones, and smallish footprints in the duff. "Could an Immortal be behind this?"

"Watchers have been known to partner with the devil when it suits their purposes."

"Hunters, you mean. Horton's fanatics."

"There were witch-hunting centuries where it was hard to tell the difference. A jaded Watcher could make a tidy sum as a witchfinder." Methos sniffed. "I smell woodsmoke."

MacLeod pointed down into the bailey. "They're burning up the old gate," he hissed, outraged.

Methos shrugged. "It's just wood. We can cobble together another after we rescue Joe."

"You think we aren't too late?" MacLeod voiced their shared fear.

"Someone had to bar the gate." Methos narrowed his gaze, counting the enemy. "Four burning their way into the bailey, one watching by the dock. And isn't that Joe's jeep on the other end of the drive?"

"There's one moving in the wood just below us, trying to find a way over the wall, too. I'll take him, then check the jeep. It looks like the door is ajar."

"Another trap. But you'll be coming up from behind them."

"An old-fashioned turkey shoot. And you?"

"I'm in the mood for barbecue," Methos bared his teeth in a lean and hungry expression that pre-dated the smile.

"Save some for me," MacLeod warned, as he melted into the trees.

"Only if you bring me dessert," Methos warned him sternly. He remained on the tor for a few more minutes, studying the grounds. MacLeod had cover, but Methos' approach to the gate was exposed. Fingering the items in his pockets, his hand touched nylon, and he was suddenly glad MacLeod had remembered rope. Handy material, rope.

Passing like a ghost through the trees down the tor, Methos targeted one tall oak whose branch overhung the bailey. Looking up, he nearly tripped over the Hunter MacLeod had silently felled and left trussed and gagged next to the wall. "Waste of good cordage," he hissed into the man's ear, just for effect.

Tossing one end of his line over the branch, he hauled himself up hand over hand, and then down the limb until it dipped, straining with his weight. Methos dropped lightly to the ground, safely within the bailey, and drew his sword, saluting to a long dead companion. "Avaunt, Lord! There are barbarians beseiging the castle!" The walls had narrow gates for good reason. He would only have to deal with one barbarian at a time.

Then the prickling sting of a strange presence washed over his nerves, and his strategy was confounded. He was trapped between the beseigers without, and a rival Immortal, within. To complicate matters even more, the very grounds he trod lay on the intersectional boundaries of two holy traditions that had a local history of not really getting along.

"There are no lords in these precincts, intruder," a woman's voice echoed around the walls. "Respect the sanctuary, or die."

-13-

Silent as his Sioux teachers, MacLeod opened his senses to the forest. His quarry made themselves manifest despite their poor attempts to hide--one shuffled constantly in the leaves to keep warm, but his struggle against the garotte left him cooling in a heap. Another coughed, and cursed the weather, and did not cough again. They were armed with viciously lethal Mac 10s, but they were unwieldy and poorly maintained. MacLeod discarded them as unreliable, and far too noisy.

Circling, he found the last Hunter well removed at the head of the drive. He was more alert than the rest of his team, no doubt designated to look out for Amanda's possible arrival, as well as making sure the trap swung shut. Looking every direction but the direction of danger, the guard nearly fainted when MacLeod snaked his dagger under his vest and cut the lead to his walkie talkie.

"I think you have something to tell me," MacLeod encouraged. "You want to tell me how many men there are, and where they are assigned."

"I do?" his victim squeaked, trying to keep his adam's apple from brushing against the point of the knife. "I do! Really. I do," he swiftly agreed when the point pressed. "But you'll never get past them."

"I already have. Speak."

He spoke.

The main body of a half a dozen were attempting the castle, MacLeod wrote to Amanda, pinning the note to the tied up body of the sentry laid prominently at the entrance. He hesitated to call her cell if she was still engaged in her end of the operation. "Be polite to Amanda, and answer all her questions. She's not nearly as nice as I am," MacLeod warned his charge as he left him. "Not nearly as nice at all."

MacLeod started back, but after three steps he returned to his captive, picking him up by the collar. "One last question. Where is Joe?"

The sentry turned three shades whiter. "He fell in the water when they ran over his boat. Davy said they killed him right there, but I think I saw him moving when we shot at him and the crazy lady Immortal dragged him into the castle."

"Are you insane?" MacLeod objected, shaking him firmly to see if another answer would come out.

"Since you're the nice guy, if I tell you yes, will you let me go?"

"No." MacLeod dropped him and stuffed a handful of dead leaves in his mouth to keep him quiet, then set off at a dead run for the castle. He had gone no more than a few yards when the crash of automatic weapons fire tore through the peaceful forest and sent birds fleeing to the skies, and rabbits coursing through the wood.

MacLeod could only keep running, while he battled the dread that he had lingered too long.

-14-

Ceirdwyn staggered a bit as she carried her burden over the threshold of Rebecca's inner sanctum. This time, Joe did not complain at all, and she found she missed his fiery protestations. "We're almost there," she reassured him anyway, not quite sure if he heard.

Her hand ran over the rough stonework of the interior wall, as she chanted numbers under her breath, counting stones from one hall and steps from another. The light was slanted through the high embrasures above the hall--it would be dark soon. Finally she stopped, pressing on the upper right corner of what appeared to be solid stonework, and five steps further down a hidden door opened. Ceirdwyn smiled as she entered--the bolt-hole was still readied in these modern times, though the last time she had used it was when she and Connor had smuggled Jews and Romany out of occupied France. There was even firewood still laid in the hearth.

"I'm sorry, Joe. Bumping over my shoulder in a fireman's carry had to feel terribly undignified," she apologized, easing him down (carefully, this time) onto a small sofa. She lit the fire from old-fashioned safety matches she found on the mantel, and the bone dry wood caught easily.

Partly mollified, and partly too frozen and exhausted to care, Joe still managed a smile. "It has being shot full of holes beat all hollow."

"You sound experienced in the matter," Ceirdwyn joked as she set out cans of soup from the small pantry to warm on the hearth, and filled the old swinging cauldron to heat water for washing wounds, later.

"I've lead a wicked life," Joe admitted vaguely. "What is this place?"

"Speaking of wicked? A bolt-hole, a priest-hole, a hideout, a retreat. It's protected saints and witches, Templars and Cathars, maltreated mistresses and mistreated wives. The first time Rebecca revealed it to me, she hid me here from a pack of rabid Inquisitors. I brought her dozens of lost souls in the centuries since."

"She was unique. Amanda misses her very much," Joe said sadly, staring into the crackling flames.

Ceirdwyn nearly dropped the first aid kit she had pulled out of the garderobe. "Amanda? You know Amanda?"

Joe looked up at the clatter. "Sorry. I shouldn't be speaking out of turn. But you've got a right to know, saving my sorry ass and all. She's one of the reasons I'm here." He peered at her, suddenly uncomfortable. "I take it you know Amanda. I hope you're on good terms. Or at least not on 'behead now and we'll talk about it later,' terms. She's a good friend."

"Amanda? She's a thief! And a liar! And a double-dealing card cheat! She even once stole the Cardinal's jewels right out of this very castle, and set half the province alight while getting away!"

"I'm sure she must have had a good reason," Joe protested weakly. Oh, yes, Ceirdwyn grinned, Joe knew Amanda.

She tempered her voice when she realized Joe was becoming distressed for no good reason. She knelt down with the first aid kit and patted him reassuringly on the stump. "Do not worry, so. She had an excellent reason. The Cardinal had dispossessed Rebecca of castle and lands. He cheated on his tax collections, terrorizing the province. Amanda burgled the crooked assessors, and burned up their greedy tax lists. Can you believe they charged me six good milk cows a year for running the abbey dairy? Six!"

Ceirdwyn opened the kit and began daubing the open cuts on Joe's hands before they thawed. "Mind you, she's an outrageous pilferer. But I dearly love Amanda, and not for that wonderful rampage alone. She is my sister in deed and in love, and if you are her friend, then you are mine."

She seemed to have struck her companion dumb, his silence stretched so long, but he finally answered, with sweet simplicity. "I am honored." He thought about it for a moment more. "And I bet you let Amanda into the castle through the dairy."

"Excellent guess! There was no other reason to hang about that turd of a Cardinal," Ceirdwyn laughed. "Now that is settled, let's get you out of that ruined coat and wetsuit, and warm you up. No argument, or I'll just get out my knife and cut them off." Most men backed off after that threat, and in this case, Joe was no exception.

Nor was he in any shape to stop her, though he stubbornly drew the line at removing a waterlogged pouch from around his neck, gripping it tightly. "Oh, relax, Joe. I promise I won't pilfer your remains until after you're dead. And Rebecca packed away all sorts of spare clothes for these emergencies. I'm sure I can find you something to cover your modesty," she reassured, before he dwelled on the alternative too long. Modern men did tend to be painfully shy, she'd found, something that she and Amanda had taken shameful advantage of in recent years.

"Take it easy. Don't be peeling me like a shrimp," he complained, getting into the spirit. "Hey, that tickles!"

"Excellent scars, Joe! You've been holding out on me--these are quite superior bullet holes, indeed. Unusual sewing technique, though. I haven't seen that stitch in years."

"Must have been an owl on my tail that day."

"More than one, I'd say," she agreed. She plied him with hot liquids but stayed her hand on the hidden cache of Napoleon Brandy. That could wait until they could both appreciate it properly.

"That's an interesting tattoo. Dividiacus had something of the sort. Was he an ancestor?"

Joe rubbed his wrist, forgetting about his modesty, allowing Ceirdwyn to appreciate his other inherited attributes. "My people came from Galway, as far back as I know," he allowed, rousing enough to pull up the blanket she offered.

Ceirdwyn checked the cauldron, and added some herbs from the medicine chest. The air calmed with their fragrance. When he was properly warmed up and she was sure he was out of shock, they still had to deal with the chunks of wood that had been ground into his side.

And there was always the enemy to think of. She was contemplating a reconnaissance to the bailey wall when the alien frisson of another Immortal singed her nerves, and she automatically reached for her sword.

It wasn't there, of course. But this was an Immortal bolt-hole, and stocked with Immortal needs as well as mortal ones. Another compartment in the garderobe revealed a choice assortment of swords that Rebecca had won over the years. She found one her hand liked, long enough to be effective, light enough to be quick.

"I'll be back, Joe," she said, when she realized he was staring with sad and knowledgeable eyes. "I still need to clean out those little slivers in your side you've been hiding."

"You better be," he commanded, and his anger at not being able to follow warmed her more than pleas to be careful ever would.

"You still owe me schnapps. I will return to claim my due. And maybe a little bit more, for not skewering you for your terrible pronunciation. Who taught you that song?"

"Amanda," he admitted sheepishly.

"I should have known. She was brought up in the invaders religion, and their dirges corrupted many of the old lays. Your accent was abysmal, and you were perilously close to calling a fatal fire, rather than air and light."

"When you get back, will you teach me?" Joe asked with a wistful eagerness. For a moment, Ceirwyn caught the glimpse of the youth still burning inside the man.

"I'll name Andarte's price later. It depends on if you are still teachable, Daw's son. And if you survive." Ceirdwyn saluted her companion, and resealed the retreat, taking care that no traces marked their entry, before making her cautious way back to the bailey. There were foes to fight, and feasting, and friending came after.

-15-

Methos immediately angled his stance so he could keep his sights on both the door and the abbey's egresses. "You picked a fine time to pick a fight," he complained to his invisible challenger.

"There's a bad time?"

Methos immediately recognized Ceirdwyn as she came out into the open, stepping lightly on the frozen grass. "I have no fight with you."

"But I fought you, once. The armies swept us apart. I recognize you, Roman. You marched with Tacitus."

"He didn't give me much choice. He liked my handwriting," Methos explained. "I had no quarrel with the Picts, or the Iceni, for that matter."

"Then you should have chosen your friends better."

"Story of my life. I'm a slow learner. And weren't you mentored by Marcus Constantine? You should have been on my side," he complained.

"Marcus lost favor with Nero. He came to his senses, and fled to the forests. He only returned to the city after I took my first head. He had an odd fondness for marble," she shrugged. "An earth spirit."

Ceirdwyn circled sunwise as she spoke to him, making him continually maneuver to keep an eye on the burning gate. It was smoking on the inside, now, and even those ancient timbers would not last much longer.

"Tell me about your friends," she asked, still trying to distract him. "Did you circle around to open the gate from the inside? I knew I should have cut that limb years ago. The Templars loved to climb the trees and drop over to see their favorite nuns."

"But you're not the kind to spoil someone else's sport unnecessarily." Methos took a chance and relaxed his stance, easing down his sword, and transferring most of his focus to the door. "I didn't come here to let them in. I came here to help keep them out. I think they're after a friend of mine."

Remarkably, Ceirdwyn seemed to be seriously considering his words. She lowered her sword to a neutral position, and also studied the gate. "You can hide inside, on Holy Ground," she offered doubtfully. "Or we can face them together, and sort out our differences later."

"I'll take the left side, and you take the right."

In retrospect, Methos decided when a hail of bullets suddenly tore through the door, the right side would have been the superior choice. Rather than waiting for the fire to do it's work, the assault party chose to rake it with automatic weapons fire to create a hole big enough to enter. Unfortunately, they also created a hole big enough to fit a beercap through Methos' lung. "Shit," he said in rhetorical splendor as he went to his knees and faded to black.

In the distance beyond the sound of crashing surf, he could hear Ceirdwyn remark, "You know, that's what I said in Londinium, when the Romans caught me." And then he heard no more.

-16-

MacLeod pelted down the track, trusting his instinct that it was clear of Hunters until he reached the castle approach. He pulled up on the corner, realizing he could not feel Methos, though a strange signature tickled at the edge of his range. This was not a good sign, though he was comforted there was no trace of a quickening, or even the sound of swords.

He ran over his mental map of the terrain, and realized Methos' best angle of attack was from inside the keep. So why couldn't he feel him?

The Hunters were now attacking a hole in the burning gate, trying to widen it enough to get through. The first was already wriggling through, swearing at the burning embers, when he suddenly went silent, and slack. When his body was pulled back through, it was conspicuously missing it's head.

Well, that made clear what side the strange Immortal was on. MacLeod relaxed infinitesimally, suppressing his urge to charge the remaining Hunters alone. Instead, he planned the best moment for an attack on their rear-guard, intent on creating maximum confusion. If, in fact, they were organized enough to post a rear-guard. MacLeod had his doubts.

They huddled after dragging the body aside, understandably more reluctant to commit to the attack. Just when MacLeod was beginning to think they might very well give up and go home, to live and hunt another day, they spread out and let loose with one full clip of ammo each. The hapless gate was shredded. It's hinges barely held, and holes gaped above and below the crossbar, sparking and flaring as splinters burned. The intruders prepared for a concerted charge.

To MacLeod's intense relief, he picked up the thready signature of Methos recovering from a very inconveniently lethal event. Unfortunately, the recovery time was also the most vulnerable time for an Immortal, aside from being actually dead, and that meant Methos needed help.

Accelerating his timetable, MacLeod drew both sword and dagger, and advanced lightly and silently upon the attackers. To his misfortune, 'lightly' and 'silently' didn't mean 'invisibly', and one of the laggards did turn and see him, raising the alarm when he was still well out of sword's reach, raising a warning, and his gun.

"MacLeod!" he bellowed, to alert his allies as he crashed into the enemies rear. "For Scotland!" he added, just for Methos' amusement, as he leapt, whirling to confuse his foe's aim. "To the death!" he added, just for the demoralizing effect. It worked, too, until his assailants realized he was only holding a sword and a knife, and they had automatic weapons.

Right. For Joe. To the death.

-17-

Methos gasped, and nearly sat up into another hail of bullets. "Note to self. Buy stock in ammunition."

"Stay down if you value your head," Ceirdwyn remarked from the safety of the wall, well away from the angle of fire.

"Now you tell me." Painfully he crawled to the opposite wall and levered himself up. "Whose head is that?"

"He didn't give his name," Ceirdwyn said sadly. "In my day, we screamed our clan names till our throats bled."

"Ah, the good old days. 'On, Trigomantes!' Haven't you watched a World Cup match?"

"You've got a point," she conceded. She tipped her head toward a sound beyond the burning door. "I think they are rallying." Neither of them were foolish enough to chance a look. Then, there was a simultaneous sound of another gunshot, and a clear call of "MacLeod!" and a clash of steel.

"MacLeod?" Ceirdwyn asked, astonished. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?"

"The same. Shall we?" he asked, raising his sword in one hand, and palming his gun in the other.

"We shall," Ceirdwyn responded, and as one they rounded and crashed through the gate, completing it's destruction in a shower of sparks, while shouting at the top of their lungs, " _MacLeod!_ "

-18-

Amanda drove as smoothly as she could over the old road to Rebecca's, though her passenger suffered from the jolts and he often cried out, though she did her best to offer what techniques she could to help a mortal unschooled in the handling of pain. He just needed more help than she could provide, and Methos was far closer than the closest hospital.

As she slowed for the turn into the preserve, he roused. "External energy forces the atoms in the mineral crystal to move more energetically," he stated with unusual clarity. "Applying heat or mechanical or acoustic energy to the crystal increases the kinetic energy."

Amanda put a hand on his shoulder. "What does that mean, Skip?" she asked evenly. "What was Joe trying to do?"

"Acoustic energy! With the right ranges and frequencies, the crystals activate! They glow! I got the idea from an old Druid chronicle, you know, chants and things and magical orbs? I wanted to work on it for my thesis." Skip seemed to have found a way to remove himself from his pain while he enthused about his project. "Everyone rejected it, even my history of music advisor. Then out of the blue, Joe said he'd sponsor me!"

"Joe believes in long shots," Amanda smiled, encouraging him to continue, while a less civilized part of her brain planned creative revenges on the Watcher for not including her in the project.

"I still can't believe Joe Dawson himself decided to help me. He's a legend, you know? Joe checked out the crystal for me, and helped me chart the ranges. You know he sings? Of course you do. He's a perfectionist about pitches. Made me do it over and over again. We got the little crystal to blink once or twice, before, but you were the one who solved it for us--the ascending chords in that song of Rebecca's just made it go crazy!" Skip petered out, his small burst of energy burning low.

Amanda immediately doubled the revenges she had in mind--devious Joe Dawson had pumped her for information. Her! Amanda! He was going to pay dearly for his deceit. Keeping her tone light and cheery, she asked, "But why did Joe come here? To Rebecca's?"

"He wouldn't talk about it, for sure," Skip answered, clearly wilting. "But it was pretty obvious he was looking for the rest of the crystals, and this was a good place to start. It's downstream from the bridge where they were lost. They could tumble a long ways in the spring floods. And who knows? They were magic, right? Maybe they were drawn back. Though Joe said that was a lot of bull, and made me go do the footnotes. Chicago style!" he ranted.

"And the Hunters?" Amanda asked briskly, before he faded completely from his endorphin high.

"They got into my stuff while I was footnoting. I was only gone a few minutes for coffee! It should have been safe. I was in the _library!_ " he declared, outraged. "And they somehow knew where Joe went, and now I've killed him!"

"Easy, Skippy, I'm first in line," Amanda murmured to herself. How could Joe pull this job without her? He didn't dare get killed before Amanda had first crack at him.

When Amanda made the final turn and picked up MacLeod's cryptic note, the distant clatter of gunfire made her apologize to Joe for her maledictions. Tossing the note and the protesting captive into the bed of the van, Amanda flew down the track, slowing only a little as she passed Joe's jeep, and braking to a halt in front of the destroyed gate.

It was mayhem. Methos, MacLeod and a woman stood with their backs to each other in a circle, surrounded by a heap of bodies and broken guns. She slid out and padded over to the circle. MacLeod gave her a welcoming kiss, though his eyes were grave and sad. "You didn't leave anyone for me?" she asked, disappointed.

"MacLeod tried to even things up for them by forgetting to use his gun," Methos said caustically. "Otherwise, no, we were afraid they wouldn't be quite up to your usual standards."

"I was hoping there would be a few more," Ceirdwyn said, sounding slightly depressed. "I haven't had a good melee in decades." Then she broke into a joyful smile. "Amanda! Well met!"

Amanda beamed, and reached up and wiped some soot from Ceirdwyn's face. "You've been playing. And you smell like a bonfire. I missed you." They joined in a long, luxurious welcome kiss that went well beyond mere Continentality, and it was with regret that Amanda tore herself away before Ceirdwyn was ready to let her go. "Methos. It's Skippy. He's in the van. They shot him in the femur," she said.

Wasting no time, Methos opened the van door and drew his second (and cleanest) dagger to rip open the material over the thigh.

Skip inhaled in horror. "Whoa. Easy, scary dude."

"What? Don't worry, I sharpened it just last week," Methos reassured. "Oh, by the way, I'm Dr. Adams," he added brightly. Skip did not looked particularly reassured, or convinced.

Neither did Ceirdwyn. "Excuse me, friends and Roman," she said with a short frosty glance at Methos. "I have an errand. I will be back in time to help you carry him into the sanctuary."

White-faced and shaking, Skip groaned weakly as the Immortals worked together to unpeel him from the bloodsoaked seat. "I was too late. I'm sorry. They already said they drowned Joe. Right over there!" Skip waved vaguely toward the pier. Davy said he went down like a rock. But Davy's an idiot. He even washed out of remedial English, and that's a cruise," Skip protested.

"How would you know?" asked Methos, distracting his patient from what would come next.

"I aced it, didn't I? Ow! Stop it!" Skip wailed.

"Easy, Skip," Amanda slid in next to him and held him while Methos worked.

"Davy couldn't take down Joe? Could he?" he pleaded. "Not Joe!"

"Shhh..." Amanda calmed him, helping keep the pressure on the wound. "No idiot's are going to take down Joe. Plenty have tried, right, MacLeod?" she asked, fiercely demanding his agreement, though he avoided her eyes.

But Skip's eyes stayed riveted on Methos and his very sharp dagger as he slashed through his bindings and the seat belt. "I'm sorry, scary dude," he said in a very small voice, and then fainted away altogether.

"Is he going to be all right?" Amanda asked in a small voice. Her own instincts were already telling her the answer. "He did try to help."

The look Methos gave her held no excessive hope. "We'll see. I'll have to get him to a warmer place, with light and tools to work, but my bag is up in the car. And we still need to look for Joe," he added practically, if not much more optimistically.

MacLeod stood and scanned the riverbank, his eyes bleak. Two people had now declared Joe dead, and his heart weighed like a stone. "I will look for Joe. Amanda, you get the bag. Methos, try to keep him alive, he's our only link to who did this," he ordered.

"Aside from Joe," Methos amended sharply. Hope stung, and hope betrayed, but he still wasn't immune from it's enticement. Not yet.

"Oh, one second, almost forgot," Amanda pulled open the back sliding door, and the sentry from the road rolled out. She waved to her friend returning from the pier, where she seemed to have found a green duffel. "Look, Ceirdwyn, one more for you!"

"We can put him in the dungeon, and have a slice later," Ceirdwyn said briskly, as she walked up, bag slung over her shoulder. "Too bad it's too late in the season for a wicker man."

The captive shook his head, panicking, "Please, don't."

MacLeod picked him up and laid a finger over his lips. "Will you tell us everything you know?"

"They'll kill me."

Silently, MacLeod turned him around and let him see the full magnitude of the carnage. It turned out to be a mistake, because after he fainted, they had two bodies to carry.

"Andarte wouldn't mind a quick sacrifice. Her stones are thirsty," Methos said in a voice too low for MacLeod to hear, earning himself a quick smile from Ceirdwyn.

Occupying herself with rigging the stretcher, Ceirdwyn continued, "Rebecca keeps...kept...a very well stocked infirmary. And I have a warm and dry place for your hurt child ready right now. We can put him in with my new friend Joe," she added with a sly smile.

Amanda, Methos and MacLeod froze. Methos jumped in first, looking up from his work on Skip. "MacLeod, you really have to speak to Joe about moonlighting with strange Immortals on the clock."

"Is he all right?" Amanda asked for them all, after smacking Methos.

"Some bruising where the boat hit him, and I need to cut those chunks of wood out, but I think the frostbite is minor, and he is recovering from the hypothermia," she said matter-of-factly. "All in a day's work for a seasoned warrior like him, I should think."

"He really was hit by a boat." MacLeod stated it calmly, as if it happened every day.

"Quite a powerful one. I was impressed to find him alive. Though those legs gave me quite a turn at first--I thought the propeller had gotten him," she admitted. "By the way, remember to be careful when you open the door. He might have gotten restless and found the armory by now."

"Another house call," Methos sighed, motioning MacLeod and Amanda to take up the cobbled-together stretcher. "This time I'm sending my bill to the Watchers, no matter what Joe says. His bar doesn't have enough beer to cover it."

"Joe owns a bar?" Ceirdwyn asked, intrigued. As they walked, she continued to pepper them with questions. "Where is he from? How did he find out about Immortals? Is he married?" Methos, Amanda and MacLeod pulled up short with that one. "And what's a Watcher?"

-19-

After taking out the bullet and wrapping the wound, Methos felt Skip's pulse points and exhaled. "That's all I can do for him, Joe. Now, let's see about you," he commanded.

"Is there a chance?" Joe asked, though the wound was deep and the blood loss dire. "Can you do anything more for him?" Joe ignored Methos' oath when he unwrapped the blanket and saw the spreading bruise and seeping splinterholes.

"He was dying when Amanda found him, Joe. I'm not a miracle worker. It was a hollow point. Even with the transfusions from Amanda and Mac, the hydrostatic damage to his organs was just too great."

"Dammit, I dragged him into this. It's not fair. He's too young for this crap."

"You were even younger, when you went to Vietnam, Joe," Methos observed neutrally as he tweezed out some smaller wood chips.

"That was different! That was war!" Joe snapped. "This is..."

"...a different war." Methos cleaned the tweezers again and started pulling out the bigger pieces, wincing more than his heartsore patient.

"He didn't know that. I should have been looking after him. He was doing me a favor, messing with the harmonics, testing the crystal in the lab."

"How did you get clearance?"

"Even though I don't have a fancy title, I still have seniority out the yinyang. No one tried to stop me."

"Then you gave it to a student?" Methos asked, disbelieving.

"Who better? The kid was still in junior high when the crystals were lost, and he couldn't give a shit about Stern and Geiger. To him, it's a cool fairy tale combined with rad physics. His words, not mine. Did you know that the crystals vibrate and hum or glow when exposed to certain frequencies?" Joe sucked in a breath as Methos pulled at a large piece snagged inside the skin.

"I know what a crystal set is, Joe. Are you saying this crystal came from Methuselah's Radio?" Methos let go, and sat back, giving them both a break.

"Smartass. I figured with the right sound combination, I might be able to recover some of Rebecca's stones."

"Why, Joe?" Methos asked, a note of cold iron in his voice.

Joe shrugged, and again a fleeting look of anguish passed over his face as he leaned over and checked Skip's pulse. "Because the Watchers lost them, and someone needed to put it right?"

"And it had to be you," Methos' voice softened in exasperated acceptance. He leaned over, got a good grip on the last chunk, and yanked.

Joe didn't even swear at him. Methos dabbed at the oozing blood, swearing at himself. "Yeah, hubris, right? But I couldn't do it without Skip. You wouldn't believe what he can do with GarageBand. When I brought him Amanda's song, he got totally lost in the research, surfing the web, finding variations. I tried to emphasize the need to keep it secret, to keep it secure. I didn't try hard enough."

"He didn't listen hard enough. I hate to be the one to spring this on you, Joe, but kids don't always listen to their elders."

"I will from now on, Joe, I promise," came a weak voice from the bed.

Joe looked to Methos for a ray of hope, then closed his eyes, denied. "I know you will, kid," he said gently. "Anything I can get you?"

Skip managed to sip some water that Methos offered, but the effort cost most of his strength. "Did it work, Joe? The underwater microphone, the harmonic variations? Did you find anything?" the hope in his voice hard even for Methos to bear.

Joe bore it as his due. "Yeah, kid, it worked. And it glowed. And I found one. You did it. You got it right."

"You actually found one?" Methos interrupted, astonished.

"Yeah, lucky me. Fell out of the boat, practically right on top of it. There it was, glowing like a sparkler, all the colors of the rainbow. And I grabbed it. Just like a bad Tolkien remake."

"Show me, please?" Skip pleaded.

Joe fumbled at the waterstained pouch hanging around his neck, but his frostbitten fingers weren't up to the task. He angrily shoved it at Methos. "Here. Open it. And keep 'em. One for Skip, one for you. I don't want 'em anyhow."

Methos teased open the bundle and spilled two crystals out on his palm. They caught the rays from the candles and lamps, beams refracting and dancing as he moved the crystals in the light. "I don't deserve a gift like this, Joe."

"Too bad, because I'm not taking it back."

Nodding indulgently, Methos still curled Joe's fingers numbed fingers around the stone, watching his eyes catch the light. "Then borrow it, one last time, and sing it alive for your friend," he said impulsively.

Methos placed the second crystal over Skip's still beating heart, and held it there, even as he held Joe's hand shut around the first.

"I'm so cold. But it's warm," Skip reached out for Joe, his eyes shining. "Sing it, Joe. Please."

And Joe sang, his gift bringing the crystals alive, kindling an eldritch light and healing heat, and far, far more.

The stones of Rebecca's abbey rang with the litany, breaking their long silence and sharing with the forbidding sentinels on the tor. Water in the cauldron shivered with the vibrato, and the fire beneath surged, fed by the agitated air.

All around the tor the stones hummed, and trees reached out to the west wind, and where the River Sequana wound around the abbey, tiny lights danced in the depths, shining like a celestial necklace in the cold waters around Rebecca's castle.

-20-

Returning from disposing of the bodies littering Rebecca's grounds, MacLeod and Methos checked in on their patients, finding them up and awake, dressed warmly from the abbey's stores, and hale enough to bicker about Joe escorting Skippy home.

"Why can't we stay here, Joe? The crystals are still out there!"

Provoked, Joe started to deliver a lecture on the dangers of meddling in the affairs of Immortals.

"He's speaking from the heart, isn't he?" MacLeod observed.

"He's speaking from experience," Methos corrected. "It's a miracle we've kept him alive this long, the way he meddles."

"This time, it was Rebecca's miracle," MacLeod murmured as they paused before the door. "It really does have healing powers."

Methos stiffly angled his head away. "Ramirez--he spoke of gifts. Rebecca deliberately gave her crystals away. The older texts named the stones 'Methuselah's Gift'. Joe's crystals were only dangling bits of quartz that trapped and broke the light--until he gave them away."

"And then you gave yours back, and in doing so, helped Joe," MacLeod laid his hand gently on Methos' knotted shoulder, not removing it until he felt the knot unravel. "You were on the right track. You would have given anything to save Alexa."

"No. It wouldn't have worked. Luther was greedy, and dishonored his gift by trying to take them all. Geiger was greedy, and died powerless with all of them in his hand. I wanted them all, too. And all I needed was one. The one Amanda gave me, and I refused."

"You had no chance, without the acoustical key. There was nothing you could do, Methos. The secret was lost."

Ceirdwyn poked her head into the room, drawing them out. Dirt streaked her cheek. "Amanda and I have finished. The last of the bodies from the bridge are given to Sequana. They won't be returned to the sun. The one with the broken hand, though, was missing. Taken away in the Night Owl, no doubt. We will find them," she said confidently.

MacLeod drew Ceirdwyn aside. "The boy is really fully recovered?

"He was so near edge of the Overworld that he will remember very little of the past day, but otherwise, yes, the healing was very powerful. He'll only carry an honorable scar, and perhaps a slight limp." She eyed Joe with more concern. "The bard is a different tale. His gift summoned the attention of certain powers that are not easily denied. Andarte and Morrigan will eventually have their due."

"What does that mean?" MacLeod asked. "What can we do?"

"You? Nothing, MacLeod. The goddesses are very possessive, and particular. It is best not to get intwined in their mysteries, if you can avoid it. Isn't that so, Roman?"

"Yes, yes, that is so," Methos said testily. "Don't mess with the moon goddess. And don't call me 'Roman!' "

"Skippy was already taken," Ceirdwyn laughed, and danced out of his range. "Do not worry about Joe! Amanda and I have a plan. A sacred calling, you might say. Just keep him here a while longer."

"Do we have to keep Skippy, too?" MacLeod asked for them both.

"Send him home in his chariot. Hopefully the smell of blood will temper his excesses, and instill an iota of sense."

Amanda breezed through their discussion and into Rebecca's hideaway, carrying a box with a number of loose papers and discs. "Are these yours, Skippy, dear? We found them at the bridge."

"My thesis!" Skippy howled. "I need those! I'm so glad you found them. Joe grades down for lates and incompletes."

"Lates?" Methos echoed, his eyes widening.

"Incompletes?" Amanda echoed, with dawning comprehension.

"Joe's your teacher?" MacLeod finally put their fears into words. "Really your teacher? Not just your boss?"

"Don't rub it in, Mac," Joe asked. "You should have seen the washouts. Skippy was the pick of the litter."

"What do I do with his papers?" Amanda asked, holding up one between two fingernails, as if it harbored plague fleas.

Methos smiled. "Give them to me. I'll think of something."

MacLeod shook his head. "Poor Skippy."

Ceirdwyn poked her head into the room as Amanda played keepaway with Skip. "Amanda and I are off to shower, and cleanse," She winked at Joe. "When you've dealt with the apprentice, come see us, Bard. We have a present for you."

Amanda energetically thumped the box containing Skippy's thesis into Methos' chest, whose glare made the young Watcher shy back behind Joe. Linking her arm with Ceirdwyn's, Amanda winked. "We'll share, to save some hot water for you."

Coloring deeply, Joe nodded automatically, before catching himself and dubiously shaking his head. Recovering, he turned to harangue Skip. "Finder's keepers, kid. You see what happens when you leave stuff lying around?"

"Joe has admirers," Methos whispered, digging his elbow into MacLeod's side.

"I thought Amanda and Ceirdwyn..." MacLeod said doubtfully.

"Go with the flow, Highlander. Joe's a child of the generation of the summer of love. If Ceirdwyn and Amanda are feeling groovy, and plan to take advantage of that fact, who are we to complain?"

"Can you see Joe in leather fringe and love beads?"

"I have. I stole a copy of his high school yearbook."

MacLeod started grinning so hard at the idea that Methos nearly dragged him out of the room before Joe tumbled to the plot.

Still dazzled by their august presence, Skip's attention bounced from one Immortal to another, not quite assimulating the nuances. Finally, timidly, he asked, "We're not returning the bodies?"

"To whom?" Methos interrupted, seeing the discomfort the subject caused Joe. "Most of those men weren't tattooed. They were hired guns. They didn't come with a next-of-kin forms. By the way...," he added, deliberately changing the subject, "...is that really your real name, Skippy? Speaking of next-of-kin forms?"

Moving carefully to the other side of Joe's chair, to keep it between him and Methos, Skip answered with controlled loathing, "It's Grover."

There was a long silence.

"Right, then! Skip it is," Methos relented, moving on.

"Joe, I, uh, kind of played hooky. From Latin. What do I tell the Prof?"

"Nothing. As of now, you know nothing," Joe said grimly. "You saw no hunters, you heard no hunters, you don't know what a hunter is. You go back to school. And you don't leave until I tell you it's safe. In the meantime, I watch, and I wait, and I see who asks questions."

"We watch, compadre," Skippy piped up, grinning. "You're my mentor, remember? I have to look after you."

"It talks in complete sentences," MacLeod noted, impressed.

"Don't diss my student. That's my job," Joe objected.

"Joe's teaching _and_ mentoring you? Forever?" Methos asked, horrified. "Another sign the apocalypse is upon us."

"And you should know," Duncan agreed.

"Who's talking about the student?" Methos groused. "The poor kid has no idea what he's getting into."

"Jerk. There's not so many candidates for the new young Watchers to choose from," Joe explained, embarrassed. "Between Horton, Galati and Shapiro's cockups, most of the experienced field agents in Europe rang the last bell. Some of the kids had to draw the short straw."

"We all did," Skip said proudly, slightly missing the point. "My whole ethics class voted for Joe as their mentor."

Joe nodded in weary confirmation. "I like to think of it as job security."

"You teach Ethics?"

"Go figure."

"No wonder you've been so busy lately. You must have a lot of studying to stay ahead of the pack. Do you want me to help you grade their performance?" Methos asked brightly.

"Now, there's a thought," Joe grinned at Skip with just a touch of professorial malice. "You can start with his thesis. And I happen to know he could use a little help with his Latin..."

"Wait, Joe, that's not fair..." Skip panicked.

"No. That's not ethical. Fair takes more work. Now. Was it ethical for you to leave your thesis around where someone might steal it? And was it fair for you to include our untested theories in your unsecured notes?"

"Uh. No. And no. Sorry," Skip apologized, considerably chastened.

"Damn right. It nearly got you killed. Now go rewrite your thesis. And leave out anything pertaining to the Methuselah stones. Comprende, compadre?"

"Aw, Joe!"

Methos came up and whispered in Skip's left ear, "It's only _ethical_."

MacLeod put his lips close to the right ear and whispered, "Not to mention, _fair_."

Skip backed up until he bumped against the wall. He remained there, shivering, until Joe took pity on him and reached in to rescue him, leading him to the door.

"Now go pack up your van, we're leaving before Amanda cooks up some more trouble. I'll be out in a bit. And I mean it about keeping your nose clean when we get back. You leave the fishing expeditions to me." Eyes twinkling, Joe shooed his student from the room, and turned to Methos and MacLeod, clearly speculating. "You guys want to proctor my tests?"

Methos appeared to seriously consider it. "Do I get to bring my crossbow? I could use the practice."

"Something a little less messy. The regents are squeamish," Joe said regretfully. "I'll lend you a taser, though."

"Speaking of messy, the passenger side of young Skippy's van isn't fit for human habitation until that bloody seat is ripped out," MacLeod pointed out. "You should stay here."

"I'll drive my car. I want to make sure the youngster gets squared away."

"Tucked in, you mean?" Methos' voice had sharpened.

"I need to get back and start some paperwork." Joe turned away and started packing his ripped wet suit into the old Marine duffel.

"And write up your little fishing trip?" Now there was a definite edge to Methos' voice. "Just how many fishing trips do you take when we're out of town, Joe? How many times have you gone out on your own, dangling bait for the Hunters?"

When Joe dropped the bag and straightened to face them, Methos and MacLeod were shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door. "It's a hobby. One little fishy at a time."

"It's a dangerous game, Joe," MacLeod worried.

"And this time you hooked a very hungry shark with nasty sharp teeth," Methos's own teeth were bared as he made his point.

"Well, buddy," Joe answered a little tiredly, "Not to mangle the metaphor, but just how did you think I was going to clean up the Hunters, if I didn't hunt them?"

"You don't do it alone. You get the biggest, baddest buddies you know to back you up, right MacLeod?"

"Right, buddy," MacLeod agreed, slapping Methos on the back, trying to melt Joe's resolve with his best wounded teddy bear expression. "My feelings are hurt."

"Devastated."

"Can it, you jokers. This is _my_ business. Lousy Watchers have screwed over all of us, I know, but the whole organization reacts badly if Immortals start picking them off. Remember?"

"We don't forget, Joe."

Joe ran a hand over his face at MacLeod's stern reminder. Methos could be counted on to deliver the most direct criticisms, but it was always MacLeod's disapproval that stung the most. "If I leave the organization a little bit better than the way I found it, why carp?"

"It's the key word 'leave' we have a problem with, Joe," said MacLeod.

"It has such permanent connotations," Methos added.

"You deliberately set yourself up as a target out on the river, didn't you? To draw out someone in particular?" MacLeod asked.

Joe nodded unhappily. "Only two people knew I was going after the crystals, my suspect and my backup, the biggest, baddest security team leader we have on the Hunter elimination project."

"And Leif was your suspect?"

"No. Leif was my security backup. Now you see why I like to work alone?" Joe snapped. "And now he's in the wind, and I've got to backtrace his whole cell, so will you get out of my way?"

"No." Methos looked him in the eye. "Who was your suspect, then?"

Joe looked away, suddenly distressed. "The safest one I had. I didn't think she'd really done anything, or would do anything. This was supposed to be a dry run!"

"You didn't! Not Eugenie! You didn't suspect Eugenie!"

"Of course not! But I had to clear her, right? What better way than by dangling the biggest bait I could find, and proving she wouldn't take it?"

"You've been spending too much time with Methos." MacLeod shook his head sadly, Scylla to Methos' Charybdis, blocking Joe's way. "You don't need to do this, Joe. Not for the Watchers. Not alone."

"He's not doing it for them, MacLeod," Methos suddenly realized. "He's doing it for you."

"I'm doing it for all of us," Joe stated, stubbornly hoisted his old duffel, swaying wearily under the weight. And waited.

The Immortals gave way first.

Joe had gotten nearly to the threshold, when Ceirdwyn stepped from the shadows, halting him with a hand. Amanda materialized and silently slipped Joe's duffel from his shoulders. The two women were dressed in matching robes of moonwashed grey, more shadow than substance. He let his bag trail away without a fight, clearly mesmerized.

Ceirdwyn spoke. "When you are in Rebecca's house, you must respect Rebecca's traditions, Bard. And you still owe me my due. Look. Mistletoe!"

Hanging from the lintel, a sprig of mistletoe, new cut to Methos' eye, dangled overhead. Joe smiled, a little of the weariness lifting from his shoulders. "Who am I to fly in the face of tradition?"

Choosing the devil he knew, he leaned in to brush Amanda gently upon the lips. Amanda, being who she was, stole much more than Joe had expected, or allowed.

"Does Amanda do that when you get back together after a long absence, MacLeod?" Methos asked after a while.

"Well, yes."

They waited a while longer.

"That, too?" Methos asked, academically curious.

"Yes, sometimes."

Amanda finally allowed Joe to breath, leaving him dizzy and swaying, and easy prey for Ceirdwyn.

"I think I've done that," MacLeod volunteered doubtfully.

"Oh."

"No. Wait. Definitely not that. Definitely," MacLeod corrected himself.

"Oh. Dear. Joe doesn't have a chance." Methos studied the tableau, committing it to memory. "We will have to try that."

"For my birthday?"

"Greedy child. I'll take notes. You send Skippy on his way. And find some mistletoe!"

-21-

Down in the lavender fields, a night bird hooted, and a wild hare flattened in the moonlight, feeling death float overhead. But high in the castle, candles still flickered against the night.

Happy and replete, Ceirdwyn rose from their bed, making sure that Joe was truly sleeping after their exertions in their most recent joining. Quietly, shushing the curious Amanda, she slipped away to open the window to greet the rising moon.

"Look, Amanda!" she whispered after her observances. Motioning her to the window, she pointed beyond the grounds to the river beyond, ghostlit under the moon. "Le Hibou Nuit. The Night Owl!" Black against the moonglow, it drifted past, an indistinct form tangled in black cordage off the stern.

"It looks unmanned."

Ceirdwyn smiled thinly. "That is an excellent way to put it. They were foolish to try to stir up the crystals."

"They must have stolen the recording equipment from the van at the Sequana Bridge. Probably the one with the broken hand we could not find."

"Andarte found him for us. She does not appreciate being trifled with. I believe she has claimed her due."

"How do we thank her?" Amanda asked seriously.

"We already have," she said mischievously, glancing back at their shared bed, where even in his sleep Joe murmured and reached out to grip the cooling sheets, searching for lost warmth. "Did I not tell you we had a sacred calling?"

Amanda smiled, smoothing a lock from Ceirdwyn's brow, and lead her back to the warm folds of the bed. "Then perhaps we had better thank her again."

-Finito-


End file.
